


Woodsmoke

by sallyapostrophes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Confessions, Cunnilingus, F/M, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hogwarts Forbidden Forest, M/M, Smell, TasteofSmut 2020, Threesome - F/M/M, Touch, Vaginal Sex, Veritaserum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:53:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24710356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallyapostrophes/pseuds/sallyapostrophes
Summary: After the war, Harry questions Draco and Draco demands answers he isn't quite prepared for. But the warmth of a late-autumn fire and the smell of woodsmoke have a magic of their own, and as the answers come, so does an understanding.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Harry Potter/Ron Weasley
Comments: 25
Kudos: 150
Collections: Taste of Smut Fest





	Woodsmoke

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fest fic, so I'm super excited about it! Also, thanks to static.abyss.this, who was kind enough to beta (and was super encouraging and wonderful). You're awesome and you deserve all the cookies.
> 
> * * *

It was colder than he’d expected when he’d left the hearth-warmed comfort of the eight-year common room to follow his unlikely companion out into the castle grounds. His hastily-cast warming charm took only the sting out of the cold. Still, he followed Malfoy past Hagrid’s hut, past the trees that marked the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The hair on his arms stood up, and it wasn’t just from the chill- it was only a scant few months before that he’d walked this same path, ready to die.

“Malfoy,” he called.

Malfoy stopped, but didn’t turn, and Harry seized the moment to take in the proud line of his back, unguarded. Malfoy had grown. He was a bit taller than Harry now, and he’d put enough weight back on that he almost looked healthy again. He walked with the same languorous, elegant gait that had carried him for as long as Harry had known him. 

After the battle, he’d been wedged between his mum and dad, hunched and exhausted and scared, out of place in the celebration that surrounded them. It was that, Harry thought. It was the sight of haughty, confident Draco Malfoy, who commanded the gaze of every room that he walked into, reduced to something so small, that had made Harry step up at his trial.  
Something had changed. Malfoy had changed. Harry had seen everything, peering through the folds of his cloak. 

“Do it,” Bellatrix had hissed, just as Malfoy’s shaking hands lowered his wand from Dumbledore’s chest. 

Had Snape not stepped in, she would have tortured Malfoy. And Harry knew it. He'd seen the resolve in his eyes as he looked from Bellatrix to Dumbledore, lying in a helpless pile on the tower floor.

If Harry had to pin the change down to a single moment, perhaps that was it. But then again, he hardly knew the boy. Maybe it had happened long before. And he wanted to know when. And why. He wanted to know what triggered it. He wanted to know everything. He’d stopped trying to analyze the reason for it. Ron and Hermione had done more than enough speculating on his motivations. He knew he was obsessed. Before, in sixth year, he’d written it off as justified curiosity. But Malfoy wasn’t up to anything these days besides hogging the squashiest chair in the common room and revising for NEWTS with a fervor matched only by Hermione’s. There was no excuse for it now. He was obsessed.

Malfoy had taken it surprisingly well, the first time Harry left the protective space between Ron and Hermione to cross the library and throw his books down at the boy’s empty table.

“Why didn’t you give me up? To Bellatrix, at the Manor?” Harry asked, with absolutely no preamble. 

The split second of bald shock that flashed across Malfoy’s face made something twist inside Harry’s chest. He waited to be mocked. He waited for a sneer that never came.

“I didn’t want them to kill you,” Malfoy replied. 

His tone was flat, even, moderated. Not a trace of his signature condescension. The lack of it left Harry oddly bereft. And with that, Malfoy had gathered his books and walked away, leaving Harry to watch his retreating back with unsatisfied curiosity.

And that’s what it was, really. Curiosity. Unsatisfied.  
The second time he cornered Malfoy, he was scouring his cauldron after Slughorn’s class.

“Why did you care?” Harry blurted.

Malfoy looked up, confused.

“Whether I died?”

Malfoy let out a sigh.

“There are about a dozen ways I could answer that, Potter,” he said flatly.

“Alright,” Harry replied. “Pick one, then.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Malfoy snarled suddenly, his eyes flashing angrily. “I don’t owe you an explanation, even if you are the Chosen One.”

Malfoy sneered when he said it, and Harry felt something in him come to life at the arch of his lip curling. A heat pooled low in his belly. There had always been something a little sharp under the veneer of Malfoy’s arrogance, something that had bordered on true viciousness, and it had made Harry’s heart pick up a little, every time he’d gone toe-to-toe with the boy.  
But Malfoy caught himself, schooled his features back into a mask of indifference. And when he picked up his cauldron and walked away, the heat stayed.  
His curiosity wasn’t the only thing unsatisfied, Harry realized. And the realization didn’t shock him nearly as much as it probably should have.

He hadn’t expected to catch Malfoy alone the third time, but he’d found him up in the Owlery, sending a letter off with a handsome eagle owl that nipped his ear before it flew away.

He strode forward until he was aware that he was too close to Malfoy. He could count the boy’s white-gold eyelashes. He could reach out and touch him. He held his hands stiffly at his sides.

“What, Potter?” Malfoy growled.

He could feel the sound of Malfoy’s voice in his chest. There were purple smudges below his eyes. He had a single, brown freckle on the left side of his upper lip. Harry was struck with the sudden need to put his mouth on that freckle, to run his tongue over it.

“You didn’t answer me,” Harry said softly. “Before, after Potions. You didn’t answer. Pick a reason and tell me.”

Malfoy looked at him strangely. He wasn’t used to Harry ordering, demanding. Frankly, Harry wasn’t used to it either. He wasn’t sure where it was coming from.

“Fine,” the boy replied, breaking his gaze to stare at a stray feather on the floor. “Do you want the practical answer or the selfish one?”

“I want you to answer the question however you think you should answer it, Malfoy,” he said, speaking slowly, as though talking to someone particularly dimwitted.

“I didn’t want you to be killed because you were the only one with any hope of stopping the Dark Lord,” Malfoy replied.

His voice was utterly flat.

“Was that the practical answer, or the selfish one?” Harry asked.

But Malfoy was already striding off. Three days later, Pansy Parkinson stormed up to him, grabbed a fistful of his robes, and hauled him out of his chair.

“Oi!” Ron exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

“Quiet, Weasley,” she snapped. “This is a library.”

His fingers twitched toward his wand, but Hermione stopped him with a single, quelling hand on his wrist. She seemed supremely unsurprised. She hadn’t even looked up from her book.

“What exactly,” Pansy asked, tracing one aqua-blue, manicured nail in a circle around the Gryffindor crest on Harry’s robe, “is it that you want from Draco?”

“Erm,” Harry replied.

“Do try to use your words,” she said.

“Harry fancies Draco,” Hermione said, cutting Harry off.

“What?” he spluttered. “That’s not-”

“Oh, come on, Harry, don’t tell me you still hadn’t figured it out,” she said, looking up at him with a sort of muted disappointment. “Even Ron noticed in sixth year-”

“That was…I was investigating! Malfoy was up to something!”

The denial was more perfunctory than anything. He knew perfectly well that he fancied Malfoy, or at least that he was attracted to him. After he was left standing in the Owlery half hard from the proximity alone, he’d stopped the rather exhausting pretense of lying to himself. But…since sixth year? He hadn’t been…he was only…

At the sight of the exasperated look that passed between Ron and Hermione, his protest died on his lips. Maybe, he thought, they were right. It wasn’t as though he’d had much time to devote to examining his feelings, back then. He remembered the sight of Malfoy, huddled crying in a loo. If he pressed himself, he could identify something else there, below the layer of shock. His first instinct hadn’t been to slice Malfoy’s chest open. No, his first instinct had been to go to him, to reach out a hand, to reach for…something.

Parkinson looked at him, coldly appraising, then walked away without another word. Harry wondered idly if silent, dramatic exits were some sort of Slytherin-specific curriculum. Perhaps Snape had given extra lessons down in the dungeons. He would swear that her robes swished behind her in the same, precise way as Malfoy’s.

He’d all but taken up stalking Malfoy again, trying to catch him out, but after the Owlery, Malfoy had managed to studiously evade him. And then, after days had passed, Malfoy had stopped abruptly in front of his spot on the common room sofa, plucked the copy of Advanced Transfiguration he’d been pretending to read from his lap, jerked his chin once in the direction of the door, and turned to leave without another word. And Harry had nearly tripped over himself in his haste to follow.

And after weeks of watching the curve of Malfoy’s back as it walked away, he couldn’t quite stop himself from reaching out, as he walked up beside the boy, and laying his hand briefly, just for a second, in the hollow between Malfoy’s shoulders.

“Come on, Potter,” Malfoy said, jerking away from the touch.

“No,” Harry replied. “Tell me where we’re going.”

“What’s wrong, Potter? Scared?” Malfoy asked, his lips twisting up into a mocking smile.

And that smile took the breath right out of him. The back of his neck felt hot. His fingertips tingled.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe there’s something about the last time I was in the Forest that’s a little off-putting,” he said wryly. “I seem to remember something about a maniac trying to kill me, you, and everyone we both know.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened, and for a split second, Harry saw something that might have been guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think about-”

“It’s alright,” Harry cut him off. “There’s just…places in the Forest I don’t want to go. Just tell me where you’re taking me.”

“We won’t go in far,” Malfoy said. “Just past the tree line.”

There was something in his tone that sounded almost reassuring. Harry followed in silence until they stopped again, far enough in that the thick tops of the trees filtered out much of the sunlight. The temperature had dropped markedly beneath the canopy. Malfoy summoned a pile of deadwood and started a fire with surprising efficiency. Harry sat and watched it burn silently for a while, and it was transfixing in the way that fire always was. He watched it flicker and didn’t even notice that Malfoy had seated himself directly on the ground beside him.

“Potter,” Malfoy snapped suddenly. “I didn’t bring you out here to stare into a fire all night.”

“Oh, does that mean I get to know why the fuck you did bring me out here?” Harry asked, irritation creeping into his voice.

Malfoy reached into his pocket and pulled out a little glass vial of clear liquid and held it up.

“You keep asking me questions,” he said. “I want my questions now.”

Harry quirked a brow.

“And what makes you think I’m taking that?”

“Because if you take it and answer everything I ask, I’ll do the same,” he replied, holding up a second vial.

He gazed at Malfoy speculatively. There was, objectively, no way for him to tell whether the Veritaserum in the second vial was real. He wasn’t adept enough at potions to tell the difference by smell or taste. But then again, there was nothing that he could imagine Malfoy asking that he would be embarrassed to reveal. He was attracted to both men and women, but that was hardly a secret these days. He was attracted to Malfoy, but if he was as obvious as Ron and Hermione seemed to think he was, Malfoy could probably already tell. Any secrets left over from the war were hardly likely to come up in conversation.

It was funny. A year ago, he would have punched himself in the throat for following Malfoy into the woods alone and taking truth serum that the boy may or may not have brewed himself. Now? He just held out his hand wordlessly, ignoring the surprise on Malfoy’s face. Should he have made more of a show of fighting it? Maybe. But that vial felt inevitable, and he didn’t have the mental energy to make a spectacle over something inevitable. He downed it in one swallow.

“What do you want from me?” Malfoy asked immediately.

What did Harry want from him? A lot of things. Answers. But also…images burst into color in Harry’s mind; his face close to Malfoy’s, their lips crushed together, Malfoy’s dark-pink nipple rolled between Harry’s thumb and forefinger, his hand sliding up Malfoy’s thigh.

“That’s…really broad,” Harry asked, squeezing his eyes shut against the imagery. “Can you ask a more specific question?”

“Fine. Why do you keep asking me things? You asked why I didn’t give you up. You asked why I cared. Why do you care?”

“Because at some point between when you were born and now, you went from being a conceited, bigoted, self-absorbed, bullying little shit to acting like you…I don’t know, like you give a fuck about someone besides yourself.”

“You wouldn’t kill Dumbledore, even though Bellatrix would have probably tortured you if Snape hadn’t stepped in. You tried to stall at the Manor. You were trying to help us. I know you knew it was me. And at the battle, in the Room of Requirement, you could have made it out before the fire, but I saw you stop and try to drag Goyle out of the fire. If we hadn’t been there, you would have died. You had no idea we were going to save you, and you still risked your life to save him.”

“And why did you save us, then?" Draco asked. "We’d only just been trying to kill you.”

“I dunno,” Harry replied. “I suppose…when I saw you do all those things, I just…realized you weren’t so different from me and my friends, I guess.”

“So it was only my self-sacrifice that made my life worth saving,” Malfoy muttered. “You’re a real saint, Potter, you know that?”

Harry blinked at him, too shocked to reply. Was that…true? He’d certainly looked at Malfoy before all that, but had he looked at him as human?

Malfoy had leaned forward, anticipating Harry’s comeback, a retort already forming on his lips. He seemed lost in the face of Harry’s silence. Harry felt lost, too. He looked at Malfoy. His eyes were the same slate-grey as Sirius’ had been. Strange, he thought. He’d known the boy for eight years, but he’d never noticed the color of his eyes. That information seemed so necessary now.

“When you found me in Myrtle’s bathroom,” he said, breaking the silence suddenly, “were you…”

“No!” Harry nearly yelled. “I didn’t…I didn’t know what that spell did. I didn’t mean to really hurt you.”

“I panicked,” he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth. “I didn’t expect you to be in there crying. I didn’t expect you to be…scared.”

“The Dark Lord lived at my house, Potter. Of course I was bloody well scared.”

“I thought…you were happy about it,” Harry said. “I thought you and Voldemort were mates.”

“You’re an idiot, Potter,” Malfoy said flatly. 

Harry glared, but didn’t bother trying to deny it.

“If we hadn’t drawn our wands,” he began, looking up and meeting Harry’s eyes, “what would you have done?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said honestly. “Tried to talk to you, I suppose. Tried to get you to go to Dumbledore for help.”

Malfoy scoffed, but didn’t reply. Harry summoned a couple of dead branches to feed the fire. The woodsmoke was comforting, in a way. He moved closer to the warm blaze and stared into it, content with the silence that had fallen between them.

“Are you planning on climbing into it?” Malfoy asked, eyeing the fire warily. 

He supposed he was a bit too close. He could see the skin of his arms growing red where he faced the flames.

“No,” Harry said. “It’s just…it feels like home.” 

The admission took him a bit by surprise. He hadn’t realized he’d missed this until the Veritaserum had pulled the words out of his mouth.

“Home?” Malfoy asked, gesturing around at the woods pointedly.

“We spent a lot of time camping when we were on the run,” Harry replied.

“Wow,” said Malfoy, shaking his head incredulously. 

“Death Eaters take over Hogwarts and spend the whole year torturing children, and the Golden Trio fucks off to go camping in the woods.”

“It wasn’t exactly a vacation,” Harry snapped back, “what with the whole business of the entire Ministry trying to kill us, and that bit where we had to find and destroy pieces of Voldemort’s soul and all.”

“What? Destroy his soul?” Malfoy asked.

“Another long story,” Harry replied tiredly. 

He wasn’t ready to drag himself through that explanation. He fingered the locket-shaped scar just below his throat, and thought he might never be ready. They hadn’t told anyone the full story, not even the rest of the Order.

“Alright,” Malfoy conceded. “Then what do you mean, home?”

Harry looked up from the fire, surprised by the choice of question.

“Home,” he said. “A place where you feel…safe, I guess.”

“Safe. In the woods. While the Dark Lord chased you.”

“Well…when you put it like that, it sounds mad. It was…it was pretty awful a lot of the time. We were always hungry, we barely had any idea what we were even doing, we fought a lot. But…it was also like…it was just us against the world. We had each other. Some of it was…there were some good things, too.”

He could feel the blush creeping up on his cheeks at the memory of good things. The way it felt to sleep in a pile together in one bed. The way it felt to hold each other. The way all the boundaries between them seemed to dissolve, made irrelevant by proximity.

“Like what?” Malfoy asked, and Harry was so lost in the memories of them together that he didn’t quite register the question.

“It felt good to be close to them,” Harry replied, the words falling from his mouth before he could stop them. 

“I’d never had sex with anyone before them.”

“Wait,” Malfoy said. “Them?!”

And Harry caught the shocked look on Malfoy’s face, and realized, with a sudden panic, what he’d just said.

“Yes, them,” he bit out.

He hadn’t really planned on telling Malfoy, but it wasn’t exactly a secret. Hermione had told Gin in entirely too much detail, and Harry was fairly sure Dean and Seamus heard everything from Ron.

“How did that happen?” Malfoy asked, his head cocked just a bit to the side, curious. 

For a moment, Harry indulged himself in panicking. He was alone in the woods under Veritaserum, about to spill what Malfoy would probably consider a scandalous secret. But really, if he were being honest with himself, a hateful little part of his brain was thrilled at the question.

“We were…we’d just broken into the Ministry, stolen an extremely powerful magical locket right from around Dolores Umbridge’s neck, liberated Mad-Eye Moody’s eye, freed a bunch of Muggleborn hostages, and just barely escaped being captured by the Death Eaters who’d infiltrated the Ministry. Hermione apparated from London to the middle of the Forest of Dean, and by the time we set up wards and got a fire going, we were…I don’t know. It was pitch dark, and we were practically on top of each other trying to see by the light of the fire, and we were so happy to not be dead, we just…Ron kissed her. Then Ron kissed me.”

Malfoy had scooted closer, hugging his knees to his chest.

“And I kissed him back. It was the first time I’d ever kissed a bloke. Hermione was watching us, and…have you ever snogged a bloke while his girlfriend watches?” Harry asked, his voice low.

Malfoy shook his head mutely.

“I could see him getting stiff through his jeans. And I grabbed Hermione by the hand, and pulled her down onto his lap. He pulled her shirt off. I unhooked her bra.”

He could have stopped a long time ago. He’d already answered the question. But Malfoy was watching Harry now with rapt attention, and it felt good, Harry realized, to be at the center of that focus.

“Ron licked one of her nipples, and she grabbed him by the back of the neck and pressed him right up against her chest, and her nipples are so pretty,” Harry said. “They’re this dark rosy color. And Ron sucked them while I pulled her jeans off her. And she unzipped Ron and pulled him out, and he was just rutting up into her hand.”

Malfoy closed his eyes, and Harry could see his throat constricting as he swallowed. His blond lashes looked soft against his cheeks.

“And I could see how wet she was. She’d soaked right through her knickers. I pulled them down, and I rubbed her clit while she wanked him. And she leaned back against my chest, and I held her while she sank down on him and rode him. And after he came inside her, I pulled her off him, and I laid her down, and I licked his come right off of her.”

“What the fuck, Potter?” Malfoy whispered. 

His pupils were blown wide. He was leaning toward Harry, breathing deeply through parted lips. He was flushed. He looked fucked already. The sight of him went straight to Harry’s dick.

“I’d never done anything like that before,” he said. “But it was easy with Hermione. She tells you exactly what she wants. She grabbed me by the hair and held my face down and I licked her until she came. And while I was licking her, Ron pulled my dick out and wanked me ‘till I came in his hand.”

He could see the bulge beneath Malfoy’s robes, and his own dick throbbed in response. He wondered what it would be like to kiss Malfoy, to peel off his clothes and watch the dappled sunlight play across his pale skin while he held him down in the dirt and sucked him off. He wondered what Malfoy would look like in firelight. He wondered what it would be like to walk back to the castle and wake up tomorrow with the smell of woodsmoke still in their hair. 

“And that’s how that happened,” Harry said. “At least, that was the first time.”

“The first time?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “We did a lot of that. We were…all we had was each other.”

A dark look crossed Malfoy’s face. It took Harry a moment to place it as jealousy.

“Did you let him fuck you?” Malfoy asked, the edge of bitterness in his voice.

“Ron? Yeah. He liked a good, slow fuck. Liked to take his time to finger me open. Liked to do it face-to-face, so he could kiss me while he was inside me.”

Malfoy’s eyes flashed dangerously. His hand twitched above his crotch.

“Go on, then,” Harry said, arching one brow in a silent challenge.

Malfoy’s hand disappeared beneath his robe. He popped the button on his trousers and tugged his zipper down. Harry could see the head of his dick peeking up through the top of his closed fist.

“Sometimes he’d fuck just me, while ‘Mione watched us. She liked us to go slow, so she’d have time to rub herself off while she watched. Sometimes I’d get down on my hands and knees and go down on her, while Ron fucked me from behind.”

Malfoy’s eyes were closed, as though he were trying to picture it. His hand was tight around his dick, roaming the length of it, stopping now and then to twist his fist around the head.

“Sometimes he’d just fuck me with two fingers. It took some time, but he could make me come with just that.”

Draco let out a shuddering breath, biting his lip in a futile attempt to stop the moan that ripped its way out of him.

“It took a bit for it- it wasn’t until the night we broke into Gringotts and had to escape on a stolen dragon-but after a while, Ron finally let me fuck him.”

Malfoy’s hand stilled. His eyes were still closed, and he shook his head, muttering “broke into Gringotts…escaped on a dragon.”

“We didn’t even make it into the tent that night,” Harry said. “I sucked him off while I fingered him. I’d let him get so close I could feel his balls get tight, then I’d back off.”

“Oh God, Potter,” Malfoy moaned. 

He was stroking himself in uneven jerks now. Harry palmed his own crotch and almost moaned out loud at the pressure.

“When I finally put my dick in him, he was half gone for it. I had scratches all down my back. He tried to touch himself, and I pinned his wrists down. I made him come from just my dick.”

“Oh, fuck,” Malfoy hissed. 

His head was thrown back. His lips were bitten red. He was hovering just at the brink of an orgasm. Harry lunged forward and grabbed Malfoy’s wrist, and Malfoy growled in frustration, thrusting his hips up desperately into his stilled fist.

“Easy,” Harry breathed gently into Malfoy’s ear.

“Damn it, Potter!”

Harry slid Malfoy’s trousers down, ignoring his protests, and pulled them off his legs. Then he slid his own zipper down, letting out a ragged breath as his cock finally sprang free.

He pulled Malfoy down onto his lap and moaned out loud as Malfoy rutted against him. He slid his hands up the blonde’s shirt, shucked it over his head, and ran his hands up and down the bare expanse of his back. His chest was a mess of silver scars. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against them, squeezing his eyes shut. He’d done that, he hadn’t meant to, but he had.

“Potter,” Malfoy cried. There was a hint of panic in his voice.

Harry reached into Malfoy’s robe pocket and fished out the second little vial and held it up.

“Are you fucking serious?” Malfoy snarled.

“It wasn’t a suggestion,” Harry snapped back, the edge of something hard in his voice.

Malfoy squeezed his eyes shut. A tremor ran down the length of his back. He snatched the vial, unscrewed it, and downed it, tossing the empty glass aside like an angry child.

“Now tell me what you want,” Harry ordered.

“I want you to fuck me,” Malfoy said. “I want to put scratches all down your back. I want you to pin my wrists down so I can’t touch myself. I want you to fuck me face-to-face because you want to kiss me while we do it. I want you to want that. I want you to want me.”

Harry blinked. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t that. Malfoy’s face had twisted up into something that looked miserable.

“Hey…it’s OK,” Harry soothed, wrapping his arms around Malfoy’s back, pulling him close until they were pressed chest-to-chest. Malfoy buried his face into Harry’s neck and ground his hips into Harry’s, gasping at the friction.

“Oh,” he cried, “Oh Potter, please!”

And that little word, that little ‘please’ rolling off Malfoy’s tongue, high and breathy and needy, could have ended Harry.

He muttered a spell, and slickness dripped from the crack of Malfoy’s arse. He slid a finger up and rubbed it in little circles around his entrance.

“Potter,” Malfoy muttered against his neck, “Potter.

He’d buried a hand in Harry’s hair and was clutching a fistful of it. Harry’s cock jerked. He slipped a finger inside, and when Malfoy pressed down into it, he added a second, working him slowly open. Malfoy bucked down against his hand, whining lowly.

“It’s alright,” Harry said, wrapping his free arm around Malfoy’s back. “I’m right here.”

He slid the fingers in and out slowly, just brushing the spot inside Malfoy that made him cry out.

“I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

He eased Malfoy down gently onto his back, pushed his knees up toward his chest, and settled between his legs. When he finally pushed inside, Malfoy’s head fell back.

“Potter…please, Potter!” he cried, sounding well and truly frantic.

“I’ve got you, Draco. I’ve got you.”

The boy looked up at him, startled.

“Draco,” he said again. 

He liked the way it sounded. He cupped Draco’s face in his hands, and rocked into him, and Draco pushed back against him. They kept that rhythm for what seemed like longer than Harry could bear, and he felt something curling tight at the base of his spine and low in his belly. He rubbed his thumbs in circles against Draco’s cheeks.

“I can’t…Harry, I can’t, please…”

And God, but his name sounded good in Draco’s mouth. He leaned forward and pressed his lips hungrily against Draco’s, and the change in angle made Draco cry out once, loudly against Harry’s mouth, and then he was coming hard onto his own belly, and the sight of it drove Harry over after him.

For a moment, they lay panting in the dirt. The fire had died down a bit, and Harry rolled off and cleaned them with a wandless, wordless charm. Draco was languid and boneless, and Harry decided he liked him like this almost as much as he liked him sharp-edged and spoiling for a fight.

He blinked sleepily at Harry and rolled over to face him, and the low firelight made his white-blond hair glow gold, and in that light, he was shockingly lovely.

“I do, you know,” Harry said, staring at him. “Want you, I mean. I did…I have. Ron and Hermione noticed it in sixth year, but…I think it might have been before that.”

Draco’s face stilled suddenly, fell completely flat.

“You’re…serious,” he said. “You have to be. The Veritaserum hasn’t worn off.”

“Yes,” said Harry. “I want you. But I also want to…know you. I want to know who you are. And maybe…I don’t know, if that works out, I’d like to…be with the person that you are. I mean…I’d like to be with you. Together.”

“Alright,” Draco whispered, his voice cautious, as though a loud sound might frighten Harry away.

They laid curled on the ground for some time, dirt sticking to their backs and elbows, until the fire burned itself to embers and the cold began to creep in. By the time Harry doused the fire and hauled Draco to his feet, a gentle sort of silence had formed, not awkward, but contemplative and maybe a little scared. The common room was packed when they got back. There was no way to slip in unnoticed. Ron and Hermione looked up in tandem from their rather cozy position on the sofa in front of the hearth, and a knowing glance passed between them.

Harry smiled at them sheepishly. Ron shot him a familiar look that said ‘if you must,’ and Hermione merely rolled her eyes and returned to her copy of Practical Spellcrafting Theory. They weren’t angry. They didn’t seem surprised. And when he took his spot on the sofa and Draco slid in beside him, Ron scribbled his essay with a bit more intensity, and Hermione turned the pages of her text resolutely, but neither of them said a word. 

And it might take time, Harry thought, but the smell of woodsmoke hanging deep and rich in the space around them made him think that somehow, this might be OK. Everything might just end up alright.

**Author's Note:**

> 💋 This work is part of the Taste of Smut Fest, a Harry Potter-centered fest dedicated to the five senses: taste, touch, smell, hearing, and sight. 
> 
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